Newlyweds
by Gumdrop Boo
Summary: "There was something to be said about the two youths that lay entwined with each other in their bed linens."


There was something to be said about the two youths that lay collapsed and entangled with each other and their bed linens. Their breaths were gradually slowing, the heat of their skin cooling, the slick perspiration on their bodies drying in the hot late-summer air. They didn't know how long they laid like that. What was time to one anyhow when your soul was elated to such heights?

The male of the pair took a breath and finally turned to his side and managed to lift his upper body to stretch out his shaky arms.

A hand that felt cooler to the touch grabbed his forearm and yanked him downward. Lips met, lust ignited once more but he knew time had to pass before he was ready to repeat their previous activity. Her hands drug through his hair, between her fingers and it sent tingles across his scalp.

"_Wife_," it was barely a mumbled whisper at his lips, still with a hint of disbelief. Of all he had been through it still seemed a miracle of the Gods he could finally possess her for his own.

He felt a flick to his ear—one of her fingers and snuck up behind it. He pulled away with a inquisitive frown. At least it was better than biting.

"Don't call me that."

"But that's what you _are_," he insisted, not knowing why she was suddenly discontent with him.

"Yes, but I have a name—and you should always use that," she said sternly though bit her lip immediately after with a smile, "The same name you called in front of our parents, the elder, and two of our friends."

He blushed deeply, trying not to remember. For the most part he ignored the crowd of witnesses that had been required to be present. He had been preoccupied with her and no amount of people could have distracted him from giving her a perfect wedding night. Though now he could think clearer and realized they had seen everything and heard everything that pertained to marital bliss.

He let out a groan and sat back.

She was laughing now, her own face flushed but she handled the realization better.

"No one is going to talk about it. It was a formality that had to be; no one could say our union is legal without it."

"I know," he shrugged, "Still they saw—_us_."

"We see _them_ everyday."

"Yeah but Astrid, we usually have our _clothes_ on when we see them."

She only laughed harder and he pressed his lips into a thoughtful line, still worried about what the observers thought or saw earlier that night. He wondered if any of the witnesses had taken notice of how she barely flinched at consummation.

They were not strangers to each other intimately. There was a desperate, unsure time in the forge the previous winter, and then a slow and sensual encounter in her family shed not even a month prior. Now though, now it was their bed they were to share evermore.

_Stupid tradition_, he thought—knowing it was one he would choose to forego if given a free pass at. Though of all people _he_ couldn't have avoided it as it was most important for the elite—not to mention the future _Chief _to have a legitimate marriage. He didn't think there was any problem if anyone did bring it up. He hoped he'd never have to discuss it with them. His father might make mention to him but the others wouldn't dare.

What time was it now? Still dark at least—perhaps deep morning. Odin, they would never sleep and there was so much more celebrating to be had. They had already celebrated so much. Maybe that was why he so easily ignored the observers at first—_mead_.

He then remembered they had a bottle. He sat up quickly and leaned out to reach for the neck of the jug in which it was contained. He threw off the cork and let the sweet beverage pour down his parched throat—all his noises and panting had rendered it raw and dry.

"I was nervous about it too but it's just something we have to move on from. My parents had to go through it as did yours as do your cousin and his bride when their day comes."

She was right, even reasonable about the matter. He was worked up over a tradition he couldn't change. He shuddered at knowing he would be having to be a witness at many future wedding nights to come. He took another swing for good measure.

"You want some?"

She shook her head, "I'm intoxicated enough with you, silly _husband_."

_Husband_. He liked the sound of it when she said it, so still couldn't wrap his head around her surliness when being called _wife_.

He laid back down, the linens seemed cooler now—more comfortable.

"Was it better?"

"You were not the only participant shouting to the Gods."

He smiled, her point was taken as an affirmative. He just had to make sure—to know he was pleasing her. He never wanted her to feel dissatisfied with her husband. He was on a roll—minus the bit where he called her what she was—his wife. But he couldn't have ever guessed that would have even slightly upset her.

"So what now?"

His answer was a grab to below the waist. He jumped and she popped out a loud giggle—she obviously was drunk on more than just him.

He knew immediately what she was indicating and had to sigh with disappointment.

"I can't yet."

She mumbled and huffed, sending the hair in front of her eyes flying back. He caught them in his fingers before they returned to place, swiping them further back and placing a tender kiss on her lips.

"I love you."

"How much?"

The question caught him off guard. How could love even be measured? It wasn't tangible, just as happiness wasn't. Though he glanced down to her, eyes roaming across her body that was only visible due to the generous moonlight through the window above. She was tangible. She was happiness—of that he was absolutely sure.

"Does it matter that I love you more than you can ever comprehend?"

"It does. I wouldn't settle for less from you."

"And how much do you love me?"

"With my every muscle," she replied immediately and yet again grabbed him. She was very, very _grabby_ when she was even remotely intoxicated. It was something new he had learned that night as before she never really drank the alcohol at tavern or ale games. She disliked the taste of ale but they both found mead more than delicious.

Instead of bending to her will he put up a playful resistance which fueled her into trying to pin him to the bed. It was a struggle for dominance, and though he would have liked to prove himself the dominant one of their relationship—it just wasn't true and he ended up on his back, relishing the way she put all the weight of herself into him. If she loved him with her every muscle then he had no problem with knowing all of them were straining to hold him in place beneath her.

Her fingers were tight around his wrists but inched upward into his palms where they slid into his own fingers—interlocking. He felt the tickle of her loose wild hair at his chest and then a pair of crushing lips that fell back upon his own with vigor. She soon forgot about restraining him which he took advantage of and crossed his arms around her back, pressing her impossibly closer.

She pulled him up and her fingernails caught across his back—causing a small sting as they trailed up his shoulder blades.

This woman was his wife now. She wasn't Astrid—the girl who had always seemed unattainable, reserved, completely sensible.

Now she was _Astrid_—all his and bared to him, no gauntlets, no bands or wraps—and caught in an inhibited moment that _they_ would only know and it was damn amazing—felt even more amazing and not just on the surface—as a whole.

Earlier in the day they had exchanged swords and rings. He had fashioned her ring of bronze and Nadder scales—had made it even before if he knew whether or not if he could win her attentions back. Those months of her cold shoulder had him at his last hope but he had convinced her to give him a second chance.

He said it again, unwise but just to test it, "Wife."

He was slammed again even further into the mattress, roughly. He felt a hot breathy growl on his ear, "I _told_ you _not_ to call me that."

He was frightened somewhat by her intoxicated wrath but at the same time there was something inexplicably _arousing_ about it. But he couldn't just call her 'Astrid'—it seemed too darn formal. She was his wife—he was allowed at least one term of endearment, she after all, had stolen his heart.

"My heart," he let out a breath, not even realizing he had been holding it while she held him down.

"What?"

"May I call you _my heart_?"

There was silence as she considered.

Astrid pulled away, letting the air fill between them and she gave a tremendous yawn, "If it pleases you." He felt himself dishearten knowing there wouldn't be a second go—but it was only fair that they both should rightly sleep and he could tell by a subtle lilt in her voice she adored her new term of endearment.

He didn't feel the weight of exhaustion at all through the night but now it piled into him—all the day's events. She rolled off him and fell sprawled into the sheets just as she was before.

He scooted closer and pulled her slightly across him. Her head found it's way to the nook in his shoulder. He remembered when they were younger, before the complications of battles and negotiations and courtships, how they would lay together in the grass and he would point out star constellations as she laid there and he knew at the back of his mind that she would be the only girl he could ever love in a lifetime.

"Hiccup?"

"Hm?"

"When did you fall in love with me?"

He felt shivers run down his spine, at the coincidence of him just thinking of the moment. He smiled, taking it as a sign they were so completely in tune with each other it was always meant to be. A slightly ridiculous thought based on the science of things but it still was nice to think it.

"When you laid your head in my shoulder, the first time we went stargazing."

There was silence. He hoped he hadn't upset her but he was just being honest.

"What about me? When did you fall in love with me?"

"It was a process."

That sounded very _un_-romantic. He gave her a squeeze to prompt an elaboration, now with a burning curiosity. He felt her fingertip begin to trace invisible circles on his chest while she thought of her words.

"The little things about you grew on me. The more I noticed them, the more I liked them. You have a grin that is slight and uneven but through it I know you are shining. Your eyes light up near every second when you take in a new sight—it took me much longer but I realized there was no one else quite like you who took such care, who had such a love for living things and it all became clear to me right before I found you at the forge last winter."

She was right, it had taken longer for her to feel it but he was glad she had realized it nonetheless. Though he had to smile in appreciation at _her_ appreciation for the little things about him he didn't even know.

"I hardly slept last night I was so excited," she admitted.

"You're not the only one," he replied, remembering his tossing and turning for the longest time—waiting for the moment he wouldn't have to sleep alone again.

"I seemed to stare at your drawing for hours."

"Which drawing?"

"The one you did while I thought I was hiding from you. That night you gave it me and proposed."

He knew the one, and gave a sheepish grin. He knew she thought he didn't see her but he had. He wanted her to know that he really did love her no matter what had been said or done.

"It reminded me that I was marrying someone damn near perfect. Everything was in that one drawing."

"So you noticed?" he couldn't help but to give her a quick kiss on her forehead. She should be one to talk about perfect, she was nothing less. There was a few moments of peaceful silence.

"What little things do you love about me?"

She was just full of questions.

"What's not to love?"

She laughed, "Aren't you mister smooth."

"Why am I mister smooth?"

She barely punched him in his forearm as an answer. If he was mister smooth they definitely were not married. She was missus _un_-smooth.

"I love your eyes."

"How cliché," she mumbled, not impressed. He could feel the roll of her eyes.

"No, they are this fantastic sort of blue that seem to hold the ocean in them. You have no idea how lost a guy can get in those. Also you have a cute twitch in your eye when you get angry. I don't like it when you're angry but that twitch is kind of fun."

She didn't answer but kept up a giggle, "I love your words. Talk to me forever."

"Now you're just being unreasonable. Go to sleep."

"You go to sleep."

"Not until you are."

"I bet you'll fall asleep before I do."

It was probably true. But leave it to her to turn a simple request into a contest or challenge.

He knew her weakness though—her father of all people had let it slip out during the celebration earlier. Mister Hofferson—now his own father of sorts—had told him the piece of information if he should ever have to deal with Astrid's nerves or her stress. Apparently, Astrid put a lot of pressure on herself on a day-to day-basis and that was her nature. She always had a goal to reach but sometimes couldn't and was hard on herself. Hiccup wanted nothing more than to soothe her.

He began hum a tune—it was the Nordic Lullaby sung to every child by their parent when they were young. Astrid was said to fall straight asleep when it was sung to her—especially if she was already tired.

The lullaby was the easiest way to cheat at her game of staying awake. And after a few measures he felt her body go slack against his and the weight of her head totally pitted into his shoulder.

He smiled victoriously.

Yes, there was something to be said about the two youths that lay entwined with each other in their bed linens.

They were unmistakable _newlyweds._

_

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_**A/N:** If you read my other HTTYD one-shot,_ 'Old Souls' _now, directly after the above, it might give you a pseudo-nostalgia._  
_


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